Sarah 
I’ve read hundreds of ghost stories, paranormal encounters, demonic hauntings, cursed objects, you name it. My job is to research, write, and narrate terrifying tales from across the globe. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could’ve prepared me for what happened in my own home. You see, I live in a charming old Victorian in the Hudson Valley. It’s got all the classic haunted house features: creaky floors, cold spots, mysterious drafts, and even a crumbling attic that no amount of sage seems to purify. But I’d always felt… at home here. Maybe it’s because the energy was never malevolent. Eerie? Sure. But never violent. That changed when I moved in with my ex-boyfriend, Aaron.
Aaron and I had been together for about a year. Things were getting serious or so I thought. I offered for him to move in while his apartment was being renovated. It was supposed to be temporary. Two weeks max. But almost immediately, the house began acting… different.
The first sign came the night he moved in. As he hauled his suitcase up the stairs, every light in the house flickered violently. Not just a subtle dim I’m talking full-on horror movie strobe effect. We chalked it up to an old fuse box. Except the electrician who checked it the next day found no issue. “House doesn’t want change,” he muttered under his breath, before leaving in a hurry.
At first, I thought the weird occurrences were just the house adjusting to a new presence. Maybe Aaron’s energy clashed with whatever spirit had made peace with me. But soon, it was clear: the ghost didn’t just dislike Aaron it despised him.
On his third night, Aaron woke up screaming. He claimed something had yanked the covers off him and whispered, “You don’t belong here,” in his ear. I found the comforter across the room, wrapped tightly like it had been thrown. That same night, the mirror in our bathroom cracked from top to bottom right after he’d looked into it.
It escalated quickly from there.
Every time Aaron tried to shower, the water turned ice cold the moment he stepped in and scalding hot the second he got out. His phone would never charge in the house, no matter the outlet or cord. Mine worked fine. His clothes went missing, then reappeared stuffed in the chimney or hidden in the attic crawlspace. Once, we found his sneakers in the freezer.
But the pettiest act of all? The house started playing his voicemail messages out loud at random. I’d be in the kitchen cooking and suddenly hear his voice echoing from upstairs, “Hey babe, just running late-” followed by loud static and then laughter. Not my laughter. Something else. Something deep.
He accused me of playing pranks. Said I was gaslighting him. But I didn’t have the energy, and honestly, I was just as freaked out. Except… the spirit never targeted me. Only him.
Then came the night everything boiled over.
We had an argument—something about how I wasn’t “taking his experiences seriously.” He stormed into the guest room to sleep alone. Around 3 AM, I was jolted awake by screaming. I rushed in to find him pinned to the bed, arms locked down by an unseen force, eyes wild with terror. He swore the ceiling had opened up and a black shadow had hovered above him.
That was it. He left the next morning.
And just like that, peace returned.
No flickering lights. No phantom voices. No cold spots or cursed mirrors. The house felt calm again. Welcoming, even. As if it had exhaled a breath it had been holding in for weeks.
A few weeks later, I had a psychic friend come over, someone who’s helped me validate stories for my writing. She walked through the house in silence for a while before turning to me and saying, “Your spirit protector isn’t just watching over you. It’s loyal. Fiercely.”
When I asked what she meant, she smiled and said, “It likes you. And it didn’t like him.”
I’ve since accepted that the ghost in my house whom I’ve nicknamed Ruhi has a protective streak. Maybe she was someone who lived here long ago and hated seeing a woman mistreated. Maybe she was a fellow storyteller, watching over one of her own. Or maybe she just really couldn’t stand men who leave their dirty socks on the kitchen counter.
Whatever the case, I sleep better now knowing that the spirit world has my back, even if it comes with a side of supernatural sass.
And Aaron? Well, we don’t talk anymore. But sometimes I wonder if he tells people why he really left. If he admits that he was bullied out of a house… by a ghost.
Let’s just say, if you’re going to move in with me, you better come correct, because this house doesn’t tolerate bad vibes.
And neither does Ruhi.
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